


Salt skin

by noisette



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Angsty Schmoop, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Future Fic, Implied Character Death, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noisette/pseuds/noisette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, Athelstan would have sooner dived headfirst from the wall than spoken so brazenly to anyone, let alone a prince. Now he tempts the Fates with a cocksure grin, as if Death only happens to others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt skin

By the time he escapes, Athelstan can scarce remember the shape of English shores. He's praised for courage and for cunning, and as the nobles take further interest in such a paragon of Christian fortitude, he's even granted audience with the king. 

" _After_ you have had the chance to bathe," the courtier tells him. "We will bring a clean robe from the abbey—"

"I would rather a shift and doublet, if I may." 

The courtier seems taken aback, but Athelstan is a symbol now and symbols sit on pedestals in this court. "Of course…"

Athelstan could say something about it having been too long, about the cloak of his old life fitting him poorly after so much time spent among heathens, but it would be a lie. He cannot wear the habit of a monk when he has broken those vows time and time again. 

He cannot dress himself in Christian garb when he no longer believes. 

They bring him a round tub for bathing and the hearth-warmed water poured within is still hot when Athelstan sits down his bruised, sea-coarsened body. He is home: he is precisely where has prayed to be for ten long years and yet it is no comfort. 

He takes a deep breath as he sinks all the way beneath the murky surface.

The king's hall proves full of light and droning voices, but it is broader than the jarl's. It stands lit with candles and a great stone hearth that throws off its heat onto the bejewelled nobles. There are murmurs and conversation, but all fall silent when Athelstan enters. Their eyes on him are the stares of children presented with a monkey at the village fair. 

"You are Athelstan, yes? The priest who was taken?" The voice who dares ask belongs to a blond-faced boy with very dark eyes and a full-lipped smile. His doublet is woven with gold thread. He must be a person of rank, but Athelstan fails to put a name to the face. 

"I am that man," he owns. No use in lying; he alone is a stranger in this hall.

The youth smiles. He reaches for Athelstan's hand. "You are most welcome in my father's court." Not so long ago, a brutal touch would have been cause to cry out for help. More recently, Ragnar taught Athelstan to use his blade as well as his tongue. He bites back the urge to do either. He is no savage and these are not his foes.

"Prince Enjolras," says a courtier. "My lords—" Trumpets sound as doors creak open to admit the king. Prince Enjolras remains beside Athelstan, but dutifully, he releases his hand. 

Athelstan almost forgets to bow. These days if he hasn't seen a man prove his worth in battle, it is hard to think good or ill of him. Enjolras smiles with all this teeth when he sees him hesitate. He seems amused. 

"Come," he murmurs once the king has sat his throne. "I will see you presented to His Majesty." The touch of a foreign hand to his elbow is not unwelcome, but Athelstan still flinches. He doesn't expect the prince to mimic the movement or to withdraw the attention. "Oh. Of course. Forgive me." Something like understanding slithers into silver-grey eyes. "If you'll follow me..."

It is hard to feel gratitude anymore, but that's nearly enough for the sentiment to take seed in Athelstan's chest. He tries not to notice the faces watching him from the crowd, no longer curious children, now, but carrion eaters waiting to see him fall. 

The king asks many a pertinent question about the Northmen, about their ways and customs, their gods and weapons, but he concludes with a laugh and a query about the she-wolves the barbarian call wives. Athelstan thinks of Lagertha and the force packed into her tight, pale body. He thinks of what he knows of her both in battle and between the sheets. She never raised a hand to him. Does that mean she was kind? 

He tells the king and his court that he knows of none; he is a monk. The nobles heartily, thinking him blind to beauty that can only bloom in wilderness.

"My father's wit is something of an acquired taste, I'm afraid." Enjolras finds him easily on the ramparts after the audience has concluded. The night is cool around them and the sky seems pocked with stars. Below, the night guards warm themselves around a small fire.

Athelstan looks up and remembers the rustling of frigid waters at his feet, the embrace of strong arms around his belly. He says, "kings have the privilege of making jest as they will. That is their God-given right."

"One of many," Enjolras agrees, sighing. 

It occurs to Athelstan that he should feel wary speaking so candidly to a prince. Before he was taken, he wouldn't have dared speak at all in such exalted presence, let alone censure a king. Now he knows how power is really bartered; how kings, too, bleed like mere mortals.

Enjolras laughs a little, a sharp, brazen sound that stirs a flock of bats out of their hideaway beneath the rafters of a hayloft. "I like you. You hold nothing back. Not many would dare."

"I know a little about fear," Athelstan acknowledges, wary of being made to seem like some intrepid hero. No song need be sung in his name. He wasn't Ragnar's enemy when he was taken and still the barbarians came and stole him away. They still used him for ten years, for better or ill. It is an accident he has survived and English mercy that saw him spared the fate of those who came with him from the ships.

"Was it terrible," Enjolras asks, "over there?" A jerk of the chin points to the line of horizon where the sky is pitch dark and there is no glimpse of the sea. 

Athelstan doesn't let himself feel longing. "In the beginning," he hedges. The cord around his neck had chafed something awful. He spent so much time trying to steer clear of Ragnar's path that he didn't even realize the relief he could feel when finally he gave up the struggle. Perhaps that had been Ragnar's intention all along. He always was as wily as a fox.

Enjolras' gentle hand on his shoulder whips him from the memory. "You're far away. I should not have asked."

"You're a prince," Athelstan points out with a stubborn shrug. "You are within your rights."

Again that small, knowing moue tugs royal lips into a tepid smile. "I am not that kind of prince," Enjolras tells him. "I have no right to your thoughts."

"Is that so?" He is not as foolish as to think ten years enough to learn Ragnar's ways, but observation and close study make it possible to imitate. Athelstan's fingers drop to the stone buttresses, accidentally brushing the prince's hand. 

To his credit, Enjolras barely trembles. "It is so."

Does Athelstan imagine the bob of his Adam's apple or has he caught the prince off guard? "Then I would have you make amends with more than words," he ventures. "Have you wine?" Ten years ago, Athelstan would have sooner dived headfirst from the wall than spoken so brazenly to anyone, let alone a prince. Now he tempts the Fates with a cocksure grin, as if Death only happens to others. 

It quickly becomes ritual to follow Enjolras to his chambers after the king has retired and the court has grown silent for the night. The prince's apartments are easy to reach; sometimes Enjolras will walk him in, others he will simply send a page. 

Sometimes they play chess, a game Athelstan favours but seldom wins. Card games elude him, so the Prince proves victorious every time they play a hand. His joy is as radiant as the sun on a summer's day. Other times, they leave it to the wine alone to provide distraction. 

True to his word, Enjolras asks few questions about the past, leaving Athelstan's demons to lie like insects caught in amber. It should please him to find such gentle patronage; he is a monk and he is common-born. Once the king has had enough of parading him about, he will be dismissed from court and left to find his own way in the world. He should cherish the prince's interest in him for as long as it lasts.

And yet he cannot help himself. He worries the mystery of Enjolras' fascination with like a scab. 

One night, with the candles burning low and Enjolras telling him of the barbarous Franks that harass their borders, Athelstan slips a hand around the prince's skull and presses their lips together. He thinks to blame it on the wine. He thinks, for one horrible, painfully familiar instant, of covering the prince's mouth with his and having his way with him until the urge passes. Yet beyond aborting an early attempt to break free, Enjolras doesn't drive him away. 

He doesn't need to be held down with force when he goes to his back easily enough. Athelstan feels hands press down on his hips. It's enough to clear his head a little. "What are you—"

Enjolras kisses him before he can finish. He's far gentler than Athelstan remembers to be. His eyes, though heavy-lidded with wine, focus on Athelstan with little difficulty. "I won't tell," he promises, "if only you'll kiss me again."

Athelstan does. He kisses him like he's been taught to kiss: with teeth and tongue, his fingers knotting viciously in blond hair. It's not the same as kissing the man he wishes were sprawled beneath him now, but that's no reason to stop. Enjolras holds his body tightly, arching up with wanton fervour. He doesn't flinch when Athelstan shoves at his clothes, increasingly frantic for the touch of bare skin against his. 

Enjolras parts his legs with a choked laugh, fisting his own stiff cock as he watches Athelstan struggle to untie the drawstring on his pants. "I would have your mouth. If you want." He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Only if you want."

It's hard to look away, but that doesn't mean Athelstan is so smitten he's lost sight of his position. What does this self-important little prince think: that Athelstan is his slave? "Where does your father come down, I wonder," Athelstan growls, gripping him by the throat, "on boys who do with boys?" 

If he expects Enjolras to fold like in a game of cards, then he finds disappointed. Silver eyes track his movements. "Go to your knees for me," the prince whispers and it's both an order and a plea. More importantly, it is a heady blend that goes straight to Athelstan's cock.

"Make me," Athelstan challenges. As if Enjolras is strong enough. Ten years ago, he would've done as told to avoid a beating, perhaps, but the monk who was taken away has come back with callouses on his knees and blood on his hands. He'd sooner wring the prince's neck than be made thrall again. 

Enjolras takes the harsh grind of Athelstan's hips flush against his own with a hitching breath. His lashes are long and blond as they fan over flushed cheeks. "Again," he murmurs. "Again." So Athelstan does it. He could push inside if he wanted to. Enjolras is clinging to him so tightly that it would take him a moment before he could start fighting him off. 

He doesn't. Instead, Athelstan buries his face into the crook of a pale neck, inhales the smell of skin and sweat and leather, and doesn't seek the familiar iron tang of blood. He finishes embarrassingly fast, like a callow boy with his first woman. Lagertha's kisses are soothing against his temple. It takes him a moment to realize that they belong to Enjolras; that those are noble lips caressing his skin. 

He makes to pull away. Ten years have put muscle on his scrawny frame and he has no trouble shoving his way free of the prince. Wounded eyes meet his. That's wrong, too, because Ragnar would never—

Ragnar isn't here. 

Athelstan tells himself he goes to his knees because it's the wise thing to do. He'll keep the prince's favour in this base way if he must and buy his silence with filthy acts. The trouble is that such deeds no longer seem filthy and he pursues Enjolras' pleasure with too much zeal for it to be a chore. 

He even enjoys the tug of fingers through his curly hair and the little whimpers and moans that escape the prince's mouth. Enjolras cannot keep still for the longest time: when release finally finds him, he all but arches off the bed, hips pumping into Athelstan's mouth as if to force to him to swallow. Just for that, Athelstan turns his face away and lets the warm jets splash across his chest and neck instead. 

He thinks now that he is finished, Enjolras will send him back to his rooms. Perhaps, if he is lucky, they'll never speak of this again. 

Athelstan's luck didn't hold ten years ago, when the Northmen kicked in the monastery gate. Why should it be any different now that he has forced himself onto another man? Enjolras makes a clucking noise when Athelstan refuses to be dragged higher on the threaded rug. It takes a moment's rustling efforts, but eventually the prince crouches down beside him, firelight reflected in the pale, jutting angles of his body. He's still a boy, Athelstan thinks, maybe as old as twenty summers. 

"I find you beautiful," Enjolras tells him. "I would keep you beside me."

"For this?" Athelstan croaks, though it was his lips on the prince's mouth that began it all. He rights himself, pins his weight on one elbow. His clothes are damp with sweat and seed, shift dangling from one shoulder. Only Enjolras is naked, having kicked his pants while they shattered the commandments. 

The prince hooks a hand around his nape. "For this, for your company… My brothers have sons enough between them that I need not worry about sitting my father's throne. I would keep you beside me on the battlefield, if you allow it."

An offer like that was made long ago, but it came with teeth bared and the sharp tug a dagger against his bonds. Athelstan tells himself not to trust it; finds it hard to do when Enjolras bows his head to lick a stripe of come from Athelstan's collarbone. 

"I don't. I've had enough of kneeling," he grits out, trying to hang fast to his resolve and yet feeling it slip through his fingers, just as it did when Ragnar and Lagertha first took him to their bed. 

"Then perhaps," says the prince, "you will let me kneel for you?" His eyes gleam like green beads in the firelight. Athelstan feels his breath catch in his throat. And why not allow it, when Enjolras takes him in a warm, spit-slicked fist and bows his fair, golden head. 

By the time he spills his seed with wracking sobs, Athelstan can barely recall his objections. He has embraced sin before at his own peril and seen a whole village pay the price. What difference that he now bargains in kingdoms and princelings? 

Enjolras strokes and soothes the shivers from his aching bones. He couldn't be more different from his mirror image across the seas, dissolved into smoke.


End file.
